


Phoning It In

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Con Flash Fic, Crack, Dialogue-Only, Gen, Not so much a story as a loose collection of cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: In which Sherlock and John discuss phone placement, karaoke, and zeppole.





	Phoning It In

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the 221B Con flash fiction workshop for the prompts: John Watson, Jim Moriarty, at a pub, and “How did you do that?”

John! Where is my phone?

Why would I know?

Because you were the last one to use it.

I was not! You threw it at my head when your brother called last night.

I knew you’d catch it.

Not the point, Sherlock.

No, the point is: I need my phone. A point which you’ve entirely failed to resolve even though I’ve been asking you for hours…

And I just got home, so you have been asked the empty flat for hours.

Have you? Ah yes, I see. You've been to the pub, had a scuffle there too. Trying to relive your rugby glory days were you, John?

No, actually---

\--- Nevermind, it is hardly important. What’s important is the location of my phone. Your obstruction has already seriously setback my investigation and might just allow Moriarty to slip away yet again!

You mean you want to check your Tumblr for new FrostShield fanart.

(indignant squawking noise)

And it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve already caught Moriarty.

What! How did you do that?

Well, as you deduced, I was at the pub with my mates-

-The ones who hate you.

(sigh) Yeah, those mates. When, I happen to hear a familiar voice doing a passable job singing Justin Bieber at the karaoke stage.

That is not possible!

That is what I thought, but it turns out Moriarty can sing.

But Justin Bieber?! Was it Baby?

No, Love Yourself. And he was really getting into it, didn’t even notice me until I had him tackled and pinned him to the ground. Then I had one of my hate-mates text Mycroft.

John!

Well, what else was I going to do? It’s not like the Met could charge him. I think criminal masterminds are out of their division.

But still… Mycroft. I thought I’d deleted his number from your phone.

Oddly enough, it reappeared listed under George Orwell.

George Orwell? Why that?

Don’t bother, you’ll just delete it again. The important thing is Moriarty’s in custody, Mycroft’s busy micromanaging his incarceration, and you don’t need your phone, which is on the arm of your chair by the way. Your elbow is literally resting on it. 

But John, I had just found a single account leading to a Swiss Bank account that could tie us to Moriarty’s entire web.

That is amazing, Sherlock. Why don’t you text it to Mycroft?

Harumph.

Okay, why don’t we go to Angelo’s, and we’ll order zeppole with caramel sauce. You can text Mycroft a picture of it instead.

Hmm. Acceptable.


End file.
